


The Practical Applications of Crimes Against Fashion

by rhosyn_du



Category: Crawford/Schuldig - Fandom, Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Community: yaoi_challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-22
Updated: 2006-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosyn_du/pseuds/rhosyn_du
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crawford tries to work and Schuldig practices being distracting</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Practical Applications of Crimes Against Fashion

On the list of things guaranteed to make Brad Crawford twitchy, being uncertain about the outcome of a life-or-death situation ranked pretty high, right between being wrong and Schuldig’s recent fondness for suspenders and ridiculous hats. He knew that _he_ would most likely survive, but…

Schwarz was his. He’d built his team with the utmost care, choosing its members for their particular talents, ambitions, and personality quirks. He’d built his team slowly, discreetly, letting the Elders believe it was _they_ who put Schwarz together, who controlled them.

And now… Now, it was falling apart. Farfarello run off with that witch, and Nagi gone to work for the Takatori brat.

“You’ve been staring at those blueprints for three hours.”

Crawford started. He’d been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t even heard Schuldig come in. Sloppy, sloppy, and one more thing to worry about. He couldn’t afford that kind of carelessness.

“We’re dealing with Rosenkreuz,” he answered, never taking his eyes from the papers strewn across the hotel room’s single table. “It’s not possible to be over-prepared.”

He didn’t relish the idea of having to re-build his team from the ground up, which meant Schuldig needed to survive the coming encounter. It would be far too much trouble to replace him.

“There’s a difference between ‘prepared’ and ‘obsessive,’” Schuldig said, moving closer.

Crawford shuffled his papers. “Your opinion is noted.”

An arm stretched over his shoulder to drop a brown paper bag directly on top of the report he was studying. “I brought take-out.”

Crawford moved the bag to the other side of the table. “Thank you.” By which he meant “go away,” and surely Schuldig would pick up on that.

Of course, Schuldig was also contrary by nature, so Crawford was less than surprised when, instead of leaving, he dropped into the chair across the table. “No one works well on an empty stomach.”

Crawford glanced up. “I’m not hungry.”

Schuldig shrugged. “More for me, then.” But instead of reaching for the bag, his hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, flicking them open one by one.

Crawford knew better than to say anything. Trying to distract him from work was one of Schuldig’s primary methods of relieving boredom, particularly when they were trying to keep a low profile, which mostly ruled out toying with people’s minds. Since they’d begun hunting Rosenkreuz, that was most of the time, and while Crawford had no objections to an active sex life, he refused to let physical pleasures distract him from his work. Especially now.

“What?” Schuldig asked as he popped open the last button. “It’s hot in here.”

Crawford gave him a bland look. “Hot” was not how he would describe the room. “Chilly,” bordering on “cold,” was really much closer.

He turned his attention back to the report. It didn’t matter that he’d read it three times already. There was always the possibility that he’d see something new or that re-reading it would spark a vision. A tiny voice in the back of his mind told him he was grasping at straws. He ignored it and kept reading.

The sound of rustling paper came from across the table, followed by the pop of an opening take-out container and some appreciative good food murmurs.

Some _very_ appreciative good food murmurs. Crawford looked up.

“Schuldig, is there a particular reason you feel the need to fellate your gyoza?”

“They’re just so _good_ ,” Schuldig purred, licking his lips. “You can’t get decent gyoza outside of Japan.”

“While I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself, I’d appreciate it if you could do so a little more quietly. I rather doubt the gyoza are in a position to fully appreciate your attentions, anyway.”

Schuldig smirked. “Any ideas about where I might find proper appreciation for my ‘attentions’?”

“The desk clerk seemed quite taken with you.” Crawford flipped to the next page of the report. “You could see if he’s free.”

Even after all these years, Crawford was amazed by Schuldig’s speed. One moment, the telepath was sitting across the table, suggestively licking sauce from his fingers; the next, he was leaning over Crawford, hands braced on the back of his chair.

“If I wanted the desk clerk, I wouldn’t be _here_.” There was a hint of something underneath the practiced seduction in Schuldig’s tone. Anger or petulance – Crawford couldn’t tell which.

Crawford gave Schuldig a bland look, refusing to admit that it was actually quite distracting to have a mostly-shirtless Schuldig leaning over him. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

It was a measure of just how off-kilter he was that Crawford didn’t see the kiss coming. Not that such a move was typical of Schuldig’s usual tactics. No, normally he liked to tease, to taunt, because getting Crawford to react was part of the game. Crawford told himself it was the change in approach that caught him off guard.

He considered protesting, weighed the pros and cons as Schuldig’s mouth moved over his. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to look through the reports again, wanted to have the damned blueprints completely committed to memory before they went in. And yet…

Crawford’s mind wasn’t entirely on the mission, anymore. Hadn’t been, if he were honest with himself, since before Schuldig had even come into the room. Perhaps a short break would help to clear away his worries. Besides, he knew Schuldig well enough to know that if he pushed him away now, there would be no chance of going back to his work in peace.

It was only logical, then, to slide his arms around Schuldig’s waist, to pull him down onto his lap and force open his lips with an insistent tongue.

Schuldig’s hands came up to pull loose Crawford’s tie, chilled fingers brushing lightly against Crawford’s neck and making him shiver. “See?” he murmured against Crawford’s mouth. “Much better than working.”

Crawford didn’t answer. To agree or disagree, either would give Schuldig the impression that he’d won. Instead, he moved his mouth down Schuldig’s jaw, flicking his tongue out to taste salty skin.

Schuldig’s head fell back, baring his neck. Crawford bent his head to tease the offered flesh with lips and tongue and teeth, and was rewarded with a happy, purring noise.

Mm. Good. Only…

“Bed,” Crawford said, hands on Schuldig’s shoulders, urging him to stand. “Now.”

Schuldig stood, a smug grin curving his lips.

Damn. He _did_ think he’d won. That was an impression Crawford would have to correct.

The bed was soft, much softer than anything Crawford normally slept on, but rented privacy tended to go hand-in-hand with rented luxury, and for some unknown reason, people seemed to think overly-squishy beds were luxurious. It sank beneath his weight, making balance a precarious proposition, especially when he needed his hands free to get those damned suspenders out of the way so Schuldig’s shirt could come off.

Easier said than done; the elastic kept catching on the fabric of Schuldig’s shirt.

“Let me.” Schuldig’s hands moved to the clasps at his waist, and the suspenders came free with a soft “snick.”

Crawford caught Schuldig’s wrist as he moved to drop the suspenders over the side of the bed. He ignored the questioning look Schuldig gave him, pulling the twist of elastic from unresisting fingers and dragging Schuldig’s hand up above his head.

Schuldig smirked and raised his other arm.

Elastic was hardly the ideal material for binding someone’s hands, the give making it difficult to find just the right tension to prevent escape without cutting off blood flow, but Crawford was diligent in this as he was in all things, and soon had Schuldig’s wrists bound securely to the headboard.

Schuldig pulled slightly at the bonds, testing them, but made no move to free himself. Good.

“I could leave you like this,” Crawford said conversationally, sliding one hand down to stroke Schuldig through his pants. “Actually get some work done.”

“You could,” Schuldig agreed, arching into the touch. “But you won’t.”

“You’d be insufferable if I did.” Teeth scraped at Schuldig’s neck; deft fingers pulled open his fly.

“I _would be_ insufferable? I must – ah – must be losing my touch.”

Too much talking, Crawford decided. Talking was bound to give Schuldig _ideas_ , and kissing was better, anyway, with the slide of tongue against tongue, the sharp pull of teeth on his lip. His hand closed around Schuldig’s cock, giving it a single, firm stroke, and he felt more than heard Schuldig’s moan. Oh yes. _Much_ better.

He pulled back to rid Schuldig of his pants and to grab the bottle of lubricant from the bag at the foot of the bed, then slid back up Schuldig’s body, pausing long enough to leave a single kiss at the juncture of hip and thigh. Schuldig watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, lips parted, breath coming in short gasps.

Crawford claimed his lips in another rough kiss, hands working to free his own straining erection. He hissed at the scrape of fabric, the faint chill of his own fingers against his cock, and then he was touching Schuldig again, needing to feel smooth skin stretched over taught muscle, the trembling in those muscles as his fingers brushed against Schuldig’s arousal and down further to cup his balls.

Opening the lube one-handed was a challenge, but Crawford managed, coating his hand before dropping the bottle back onto the bed. Slick fingers circled Schuldig’s entrance, slid inside, and Crawford smiled at the catch in Schuldig’s breath. His lips moved in soft kisses over Schuldig’s shoulder while his fingers worked Schuldig’s ass, his other hand slowly stroking Schuldig’s cock.

Crawford waited until Schuldig was writhing beneath him, bottom lip caught between his teeth, _refusing_ to beg with words, but managing to do so quite eloquently with the movement of his body. Crawford withdrew his fingers, slicked his cock, and pulled Schuldig’s legs up over his shoulders.

He pushed forward in one long, slow slide. He paused, and Schuldig caught his gaze, eyes glittering from beneath a tangle of sweat-damp bangs. Crawford pulled back and thrust back in, watching those eyes cloud over in pleasure.

He fucked Schuldig hard, rocking the entire bed and not giving a damn whether or not there were people in the next room to be disturbed by the noise they were making. His hand closed around Schuldig’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. He watched Schuldig’s mouth fall open, his eyes squeeze tightly shut, and thought that there was nothing, _nothing_ more erotic than watching Schuldig fall apart like this.

Schuldig came with a wordless cry, his body trembling with the force of it. Crawford kissed him savagely, as if he could somehow capture that sound with his mouth and keep it. He gripped Schuldig’s hips with near bruising force, letting his world narrow to the taste of Schuldig’s mouth, the hot grip of Schuldig’s ass around his cock, until even that faded away and there was nothing but pleasure, overwhelming and almost painful in its intensity as orgasm overtook him.

Crawford allowed himself a moment to catch his breath before rolling the side and reaching to free Schuldig’s hands. He didn’t speak as he rose from the bed, returning a minute later to drop a damp washcloth on Schuldig’s chest.

Schuldig lay sprawled on the bed, twirling the suspenders between his fingers and looking for all the world like a cat who’d just drunk a whole bowl full of cream.

“At least those things are useful for something,” Crawford muttered as he straightened his clothing.

“If I die first, you can have my collection of suspenders.”

Crawford’s fingers fumbled in the middle of knotting his tie. “If you die,” he said calmly, “I’m donating your entire wardrobe to the Clown School of San Francisco.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Schuldig’s face before settling into a well-practiced pout. “Now you’re just being mean.”

Crawford straightened his tie. “I’ve never liked clowns.”


End file.
